


Don’t Go Without Me

by coincidental



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 14:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15607959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coincidental/pseuds/coincidental
Summary: Caleb has never been good at wanting things. The things he wants become ash and memory in his hands. He tries so very hard to not want Mollymauk.





	Don’t Go Without Me

**Author's Note:**

> Dealing with my grieving over Mollymauk slowly and painfully. 
> 
> This is self indulgent and it hurt a bit. 
> 
> Enjoy?

Caleb has never been good at wanting things. The things he wants become ash and memory in his hands. He tries so very hard to not want Mollymauk.

 

The scholar in him, the owl eyed bookish creature beneath the dirt, who smells of musty books and bitter ink, that man _knows_ \- because knowing is what he does, it is his calling, his core - that superstition is a living thing. It feeds on what you offer it. If Caleb offers the fear none of the tinder and kindling he builds up in his quiet moments, it cannot strike the flame and burn his want to ashes. He knows this, he knows, but he does not believe it, and so he tries so very hard not to want.

 

When he meets Mollymauk, brash, brazen, knife edge sharp and more open than any book Caleb has ever read, he is scared. Caleb has never met a book he did not want to read, and every chapter Molly offers piques Caleb’s interest more. The dust jacket of his multicoloured clothing, garish and unafraid, begging to be admired. His title - the wide slash of his sharp white smile and laughing mouth, his lively eyes - is a hook that curves deep and painful into Caleb’s gut, immovable.

 

His chapters are Caleb’s undoing though, the pages turn and the story creeps little by little into Caleb’s days, waking and sleeping hours. Molly’s laughter, both mocking and honest, is an introduction, the lay of his cards an explanatory scrawl in a margin - the words incomprehensible, except perhaps to Molly himself. His anger is blood red, splattering, scarring and scrawling through a chapter about the forging of friendship, of rescuing little girls from demons and learning to get along.

 

The story builds, and Caleb believes he will never read prose so beautiful again. The illustrations are gold leafed, sparkling, flowers, eyes, snakes, feathers, they speak volumes and yet explain not a glimmer about Molly and his transient brilliance.

 

Caleb would prefer to think of Molly as a book. A book lasts, it is loved and reread again and again and again. It is treasured, grows old and tattered at the edges, but the gilt edges still gleam and the stories only become more wonderful in their familiarity. Caleb would like to become that familiar with Mollymauk’s story, but he fears some days that Molly is more like a flower. These thoughts are kindling in the place of his wanting.

 

Caleb is not wont to trust easily. He relies on caution, steady observation and waiting, being sure. His pulse sings with the selfish, indulgent desire to trust Mollymauk though. Every fine tuned sidestep Molly makes to avoid telling his truths and his story is in direct opposition to Caleb’s desire to trust. Caleb trusts Nott, barely, he trusts the Nein slowly, he entrusts Mollymauk with his heart long before he knows it has happened.

 

When Molly kisses his forehead, brief, soft, intent, Caleb forgets what it is to breathe. For a moment, his senses fill with the heady incense that clings to Molly’s skin, his vision a blur of intense colour, his ears ringing, the faint tinkle of Molly’s jewellery hardly registering.

 

When Molly leaves his space, his lungs fill with breath and it burns and Gods, Caleb has never wanted so fiercely. He falters before there is time to grasp at Molly, to ask him to wait, to stay, to kiss Caleb once more, once more, once more.

 

The wanting is a living creature now, a hungry darkness in Caleb’s chest, it yearns for every moment it can steal from Mollymauk, every selfish, greedy moment. The sound of Molly’s laugh makes Caleb’s heart feel tight in his chest and makes his pulse thunder deafening in his ears. His stomach churns and his fingers tremble as they clench in his pockets. He wants, he wants and he adores and he has never been more terrified to feel so much.

 

Since Astrid, since his parents, since _fire_ , Caleb has tried so very hard not to love. He asserts to himself in murmured Zemnian pep talks when he is alone, that what he feels is only want, but wanting and loving are tangled in his chest, a snarled, impenetrable knot. The idea of loving Molly is terrifying.

 

It is still terrifying him as he and Mollymauk sit a foot or so apart, taking their shift watching the still darkness, crickets chirping and wind stirring the dry leaves. The fire cracks and pops quietly and Caleb’s fingers are cold. He twists them in his lap and listens as Molly hums softly to himself, something lazy and low. When Molly turns to him, his red eyes are dancing with yellow flickers in the firelight and the flames paint his lavender skin a warmer amethyst. Caleb breathes this time, a deep slow breath that he exhales steadily as he tries to reconcile with the expanding ache in his chest at how unreal Molly seems before him, how surreally beautiful and untouchable.

Mollymauk’s lips curl up to one side, a lopsided quirk. His voice is musical and soft as he breaks the quiet;

“So, stop me here if I’m wrong?” Before Caleb can question, Molly leans one hand by Caleb’s hip, shifting his weight to move into Caleb’s space, slowly angling his head in. His jewellery catches the firelight, flaring golden bright. His mouth is soft on Caleb’s. Mollymauk is not untouchable, he is so real Caleb can hardly understand it.

 

Molly kisses slowly, with intent rather than force. He tastes like bitter herbal tea as their tongues touch and his other hand comes up to cup Caleb’s jaw, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. Caleb never closes his eyes, in case it might steal the moment from him.

 

Molly draws back, only enough to part their lips, meet their eyes, cold noses brushing and hot breaths mingling.

“Alright?” he asks Caleb, voice a low burr that Caleb feels more than he hears.

“Yes, I am alright,” Caleb asserts softly, like a raised voice might create a ripple and ruin the illusion that the witching hour offers them, “I am very, very alright Mollymauk.” Molly smiles and Caleb feels that smile pressed into his mouth again and again and _again_.

 

Caleb forgets, for a while, for that night, for a few weeks, to be afraid of wanting Molly. He lets the feeling fill him up, bubbling over in the looks their share, the half smiles, the brushing of fingers together out of sight. Their kisses are few, sweet, stolen.

 

The feeling of cold stone against his back in a cold alley smelling of damp is something Caleb learns, but hardly cares to notice, as Molly presses him there and kisses him like time is on their side, hands tucked under Caleb’s jacket warmly on his waist and his back as Caleb’s own clutch at Molly’s brightly coloured lapels.

 

The flare of joy that sparks through Caleb as Molly glances each way before pressing a chaste off centre kiss to his mouth behind a shelf of books as the Nein chatter just across a store, that feeling is new and it is bright and warm. It feels so good, Caleb does not notice that the kindling piles high and his wanting overflows him.

 

When the others vanish, are taken, it is hard to do more than plan and try to quell the anxiety, the _fear_ , that threatens to overwhelm them all.

 

In the small hours, Molly takes Caleb aside to steal his fear with fierce, all encompassing kisses that burn Caleb up with wanting, wanting, _wanting_. Gods Caleb has never wanted him more.

 

“Mollymauk,” he gasps, breathless, rasping, eyes closed, hands on the burning skin of Molly’s back, tracing scars and digging in his own blunt nails. The sound Molly makes is indecent, low, full of desire. They both want. Caleb pushes at the weighty fabric of Molly’s coat, listening to the quiet thump as it hits the ground. Molly presses against him more feverishly, skin hot under Caleb’s hands.

 

From a short ways off, they hear Nott calling quietly, looking for Caleb. Her voice is tired, full of anxious doubt and concern. Caleb thumps his head back against he tree they lean against and Molly muffles a low sound into the crook of his pale freckled neck.

“We’ll have time for this tomorrow darling,” Molly murmurs after a moment, lifting his head to half smile at Caleb. Caleb’s heart thuds harder in his chest at the expression and he offers back his own helpless tired smile.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees regretfully, lifting a hand to cup Molly’s face gently.

 

Mollymauk takes Caleb’s wrist, moving his hand to press a soft kiss to the centre of his palm, lingering on it even as he leans his tall body away. The cold night rushes in against Caleb and he shivers, Molly’s mouth a hot burning point against his palm.

“We should tell them, tomorrow,” Molly murmurs, dropping Caleb’s hand so he can retrieve his coat from the ground and slip it back on. Mollymauk adjusts it to his liking before helping Caleb to right his own clothes. “About us, you know?” he adds, just in case Caleb had doubted his meaning. “You mean too much to me, darling, to keep hiding this.”

 

Caleb’s body wars with aches, tiredness, slowly receding desire and blossoming affection. He wants Molly, he _loves_ Molly. It is on the tip of his tongue to say it, to press it to Molly’s mouth in a goodnight kiss. Nott calls for him again.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees instead, letting Molly head back to camp, the fire limning his form in golden light.

 

Tomorrow comes, cold, too soon, nobody ready. Mollymauk dies with his eyes open, blood pooling on his chest and soaking all his glorious colour with the same dull red in the dawn light.

 

Caleb’s want tastes like ash in his mouth and he does not cry until he is alone. His love is a pyre inside him and his hands tremble as he burns from the inside out. He still wants Mollymauk, he wants his smile and his laughter and his warm skin and his kindness and he will want it always.

 

The things Caleb wants become ash and memory in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t post my writing often so please leave a kind word or kudos if you liked this at all? It will be much appreciated!  
> x


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